There are magnets in the air, an inescapable pull to the water tonight. It is the earliest days of spring and the ice is thawing, giving way to a soft breeze and gentle waters.
She marches to the lake as the sun sinks below the horizon; the sky is yellow, blazing orange, red, then indigo. Stars speckle the atmosphere like divine freckles. Time moves so much faster- or is it slower, she cannot tell- in these hours when no one else is around.
Settling into her usual spot, she casts, her rod arcing like a bolt of lightning or an archer's bowstring. The water glitters in the headlights of a vehicle; she turns to see who is out here at a time like this.
The beacons belong to an old beaten truck. It turns up the gravel road, earth crunching beneath heavy black tires, and continues toward the house on the hill- the house that belonged to Mr. Van Goetz.
The key word there was belonged, as in the past tense of belong. It's such a little thing, you see, but it makes all the difference.
She doesn't move, but her eyes track the light up to the top of the hill. It's different from the milky white moonlight, buzzing with a bright yellow artificiality that makes her pupils retreat into the seas of her irises.
The foreign visitor emerges from the truck, a lithe silhouette cloaked in shadow and fog, and enters the Van Goetz house.
She stays perched on the edge of the dock, her rod an extension of her arm, and remains there for so long, many would believe she is a statue rather than a human.
YOU ARE READING
The Life & Times of Melancholy Marisol
Kısa Hikayea story of a violinist named marisol and a crooked boy named finn and how grief twists the heart.
